


Redshift

by Arameyy



Category: Elsword (Video Game), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brockton Bay, Case 53s (Parahumans), Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Independent Taylor, No Elsword Knowledge Required, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arameyy/pseuds/Arameyy
Summary: Elesis Sieghart seeks vengeance against the ABB, and Tattletale tries to unravel the mystery behind her new Case 53 teammate who looks surprisingly human. Amy Dallon deals with the revelation of her heritage from an unexpected source, and Taylor Hebert becomes a hero. Fusion, Multi-PoV, Canon Divergence.Cross-posted from SB/FFN.
Kudos: 6





	1. Elesis

**April 11th, 2011**

Elesis Sieghart woke up coughing and spluttering as several gallons of water dumped themselves on her bed. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d started her mornings like this, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant.

She sat up, blinking water out of her eyes and flipping a strand of wet hair over her head, glancing over at the clock on her bedside table, which was thankfully out of the fallout zone.

12:15 A.M. It was morning only by the loosest definition. Barely two hours of sleep -- the closest she’d come to a full night in at least two weeks.

Everyone had noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Ethan told her she looked like a raccoon, and even Colin said she needed to take a break. It was Hannah who’d finally convinced her to go back to the PRT therapist, which she’d done only to get a prescription for sleeping pills.

She’d hoped they were strong enough to knock her out for the night, and had finally dared to sleep in her bed instead of stealing 20 minute catnaps in the Protectorate lounge.

All they’d gotten her was two hours of sleep and an unpleasant wake-up call. 

At least it wasn’t containment foam. Back when she first joined the Protectorate, before Armsmaster had reconfigured her room’s sprinkler system, she’d spent a few nights down in one of the holding cells, which would foam her whenever her power started acting up. Nothing was quite as awful as waking up to that.

Elesis climbed out of bed and flipped the lights on, taking stock of the damage. Her blankets were mostly intact; the top ends were singed, but she could probably get away with flipping them instead of buying a new set. Her metal bed frame had come through just fine. She stripped the blankets off her bed, letting out a sound of frustration when she saw what was below. Her pillow and bottom sheet were ruined, charred and blackened from her unconscious power usage, and she didn’t want to know what state her mattress was in. 

A year and a half as a cape and she still couldn’t keep her power off while she slept. She felt a surge of anger and self-loathing, and smelled smoke as the tips of her hair began to sizzle, kept from bursting fully into flames by the water that was still dripping from the ends.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to rage against whatever deity or quirk of the universe that was responsible for giving her such an awful power.

Instead, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, focusing on shoving down the wave of emotion before it started to burn out of control. _In, out. In, out. You control your power, it doesn’t control you._

For a year and a half she’d managed to keep herself in check through all her waking hours, and she wasn’t going to break that record now.

Elesis grabbed her phone off the bedside table and opened the PHO boards, searching for some sort of distraction.

The Incarnate Appreciation Thread had three pages of new replies. She resisted the urge to click on it; reading them would only make her feel worse. Incarnate was everything Elesis Sieghart wasn’t: proud, beautiful, confident, composed. Every time she put on that mask she wondered if today would finally be the day that they realized she was a fraud, that everything they loved about her was just part of the carefully-constructed public persona. 

What kind of hero still had nightmares about their trigger more than a year later? 

She could still remember it like yesterday. Dad shoving her out of the way as the ceiling collapsed, the fire, her brave, stupid brother trying to shield her with his body. They all tried to save her and died for it, but it wasn’t enough. 

As she lay dying, through the blaze and the collapsed wall, she had caught a glimpse of Lung. Lung, who didn’t even look in their direction, didn’t know or care that three lives had just been extinguished with a fourth soon to follow, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Every day Lung remained at large was a reminder of their sacrifice, of her failure. 

Elesis took her weight off the wall, and retrieved her costume from the closet. If this was going to be another sleepless night, she may as well get some work done.

Her hair was still damp as she entered the Protectorate lounge. It was probably the nicest room on the Rig -- the long north wall was a window overlooking the Bay, with a TV screen mounted on the wall and a ring of couches facing towards it. Behind the couches was a table with a coffee machine, a microwave, and a rotating supply of takeout. Tonight, there were a pair of empty pizza boxes. In the corner was what was intended to be a casual conference table, but most people just used it as a place to dump their unfinished paperwork.

Most nights Elesis would wander in at around three or four in the morning, and she’d usually have the place to herself unless Miss Militia was around.

The night was still young, so the lounge wasn’t completely deserted. Assault and Battery were sitting on the couch in front of the TV, unmasked but still in costume.

“You gotta stop eating all the pizza, Ethan,” Elesis remarked. 

“Hey, don’t pin this all on me,” Assault defended, turning around on the couch to look at her. “Puppy helped. Don’t let her cute face fool you, she’s vicious.”

“Oh, shut up,” Samantha - Battery - swatted him. “Check the bottom box, I think there’s a slice or two of pepperoni left.”

Sure enough, there was. Elesis grabbed a paper plate and loaded up the last two slices, then settled on the couch adjacent to theirs. The pizza had long gone cold, and without thinking about it she held a hand above it and shifted her fingers to flame. 

As she heated her pizza, she turned her attention to the TV. The channel was set to some sort of cape-themed soap opera, starring what was clearly supposed to be the Triumvirate. Apparently Eidolon was cheating on Alexandria with Legend. 

“I don’t know how you can stand watching this crap,” Elesis motioned towards the TV, then carefully tested her pizza for temperature. 

Good enough -- she took a bite, savoring the taste of pepperoni and grease. 

“Too good for my soapies, too good for the microwave. Is there anything that will pass her judgment?” Assault sighed dramatically.

“Hey, it ruins the texture,” Elesis defended through a mouthful of pizza. She swallowed, then spoke again: “What brought you two in at this hour?”

“Ran into Cricket and Stormtiger on patrol,” Battery answered. “A few bystanders got injured, and the PRT intern on console insisted we couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning to submit the report.”

“Are you actually gonna file it tonight?”

“Nope,” Ethan interjected. “We only went to the Rig to shut him up.”

“Better hope Armsmaster doesn’t hear about it. You know how he gets about deadlines.”

“Armsy’s still trying to get the last of March’s paperwork from Dauntless, he won’t care if we turn this in twelve hours late.”

The door to the lounge opened and Armsmaster strode in wearing full battle regalia, halberd, helmet and all. 

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Sam. 

“Assault, Battery, Incarnate,” he greeted them with a nod, making his way to the conference table and searching through the stacks of forms.

“We should probably take off,” Ethan said, standing up from the couch and stretching as Battery followed suit. “It’s late and we’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Catch you tomorrow, then,” Elesis replied as they left.

The door opened and closed once again, leaving her alone with Armsmaster.

Elesis and Colin had a good professional relationship -- he seemed to have misinterpreted her living on the Rig and extra patrols as dedication to the job rather than running away from her problems. She respected his leadership and his work ethic, even if his people skills occasionally left something to be desired.

“Going on patrol?” she asked. “Mind if I come along?” Maybe that would be a good way to clear her head.

“I’m going after Lung,” he replied, grabbing a form off the table and walking back towards the door.

“Oh.”

She could feel the beating of her heart, the rush of anger and adrenaline mixed with frustration and disappointment.

The PRT had made it very clear that she was supposed to stay far away from the ABB’s leader. Out of all the capes on the Protectorate team she was most capable of matching a ramped-up Lung, and the least capable of decisively ending the fight. She would only draw out the battle to the point where either one of them could do irreparable harm to the city, and keeping Brockton Bay habitable was much more important than a shot at revenge. 

She couldn’t let herself become a second Ash Beast.

But that didn’t stop Elesis from asking the PRT to reconsider. She’d failed her family when it mattered; if she didn’t at least try to avenge them, their deaths would be even more in vain.

Then the implications of Colin’s words sank in.

“Wait, you’re fighting him alone?” her voice was incredulous. Facing Lung solo without some sort of defensive power was suicide.

“I’ve prepared a tranquilizer. It should be sufficient to stop his ramp-up.”

“But what if it isn’t? What if it doesn’t work, or you get hurt, or Rakshasa and Oni Lee are around? I swear I won’t interfere with Lung, but you need backup in case something goes wrong. If nothing else, I’ll keep the perimeter clear of civilians.”

Armsmaster considered it for a minute, then sighed. “Fine. You can come to keep Lee and Rakshasa off my back, but that’s all. Don’t engage Lung unless I give specific approval or I’m unconscious, and even then your top priority will be to safely disengage. If you try to fight him it’s both of our careers on the line.”

“Yeah. I understand. I won’t get in the way.”

Even though she wouldn’t be the one to take Lung down, maybe this would at least quiet her ghosts.

Elesis followed Armsmaster to the garage where they picked up their motorcycles. Hers was a standard black PRT model, but it kept up with his Tinkertech bike just fine as they sped across the forcefield bridge towards the Docks.

“Any idea where we’re going?”

“There was a call-in not long ago with a Lung and Rakshasa sighting, then another with a third, unknown villain. Looks like you were right about him having company.”

“I’ll distract Rakshasa and the new recruit, then, and keep an eye out for Oni Lee. If all goes well then the ABB is done for. Lee can’t hold it together on their own, not once the other gangs catch the scent of blood.”

“We get Lung and Rakshasa, and the ABB’s as good as dead,” Colin agreed. 

A scream broke the silence of the night, panicked and desperate, before abruptly cutting off. Incarnate exchanged a glance with Armsmaster. They were deep in ABB territory; a woman walking alone at night would be easy pickings for any gangbanger with an itch to scratch.

“I’ll take care of it,” the pyrokinetic said grimly. “Go find Lung. I’ll regroup with you after I’ve made sure she’s safe.”

Gripping the handlebars of her bike and gritting her teeth, Elesis sped off in the direction of the scream, hoping she wouldn’t be too late.


	2. Taylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor's first night out brings her to a different foe.

As soon as I heard the sounds of dad’s snoring through the walls, I carefully slid out of bed. Within minutes, I’d gathered my stashed supplies and changed from my pajamas to my spider-silk armor. I glanced at the clock -- 12:15 A.M. Tonight, I was going to be a hero.

Everything was ready: my costume was finished, I had a fresh can of pepper spray, there were zip-ties in my pockets, and I’d spent the last of my allowance on a pair of off-brand epipens, just in case. Finally, I threw an old hoodie and a pair of sweatpants over my costume -- I wasn’t going to risk being seen leaving the house dressed as a cape.

I crept down the stairs and out the front door as quietly as possible, making sure to skip the broken step leading up to the porch.

There was a broken streetlight about a block away from my house, and it was here that I shed the hoodie and sweatpants, shoving them into a nearby bush and hoping they wouldn’t be discovered. Pulling my mask over my face, I started on a jog towards ABB territory, gathering bugs as I went.

I wasn’t quite sure how I was really going to find a crime. Everyone knew the Docks were the bad part of town, but could I really just run around and stumble upon a mugging? I sent my swarm outwards, scouting the nearby blocks and alleys, but nothing really screamed “crime.” So far, I’d only found one person, and that turned out to be an old man smoking a cigarette from his porch. The longer I walked, the sillier I began to feel, until in the distance I felt a small group of people.

I ducked into a nearby alleyway, focusing on what I could sense from my bugs. 

A group of six figures, arranged in a loose semicircle. Two were standing; the rest I was pretty sure were sitting down. The ones on the ground were moving their hands around a pile of… _something_ in the center of the gathering. The ant that I sent to scout it out was stepped on; the next, pushed off-track, and the moth that fluttered down was swept away. I was immediately suspicious.

ABB members planning a heist? Gathering a stockpile of guns and money?

I crept closer, poking my head out from the alleyway to assess the situation with my eyes.

There was a group of six Asian teens, some sitting and some standing around the steps of a boarded-up shop. Two of them had green and red bandanas around their necks; another had one hanging from the pocket of his pants. If I had to guess, I’d have put the group’s average age at about eighteen. 

One of them rolled a pair of dice then took a long swig from a can of beer. Others cheered and shoved each other as money exchanged hands, needling each other in another language. In the center, cards and dice. Off to the side, a pile of beers and a bag of chips.

ABB members drinking and gambling. The cops were overworked enough -- underage drinking was the least of their concerns, even if gangbangers were involved. They weren’t hurting anyone here. Unless they committed a real crime where someone would see it, the police wouldn’t care. A little like Winslow, really. Didn’t matter how much they hurt people, they weren’t doing anything now, so they weren’t worth the effort of getting them off the streets.

With a quiet sigh, I turned to leave, but I had barely gone a few steps when a loud exclamation had me spinning back around.

The biggest of the gangbangers, clearly drunk, had pulled a gun on one of the others, swaying and waving it around as the others tried to talk him down in Chinese. That was all the excuse I needed to engage.

Time to be a hero.

My bugs were in motion the instant I had the thought, descending upon the gangbangers in a thick cloud.

First step: separate them.

“Shit, cape!” one of them yelled. They scattered, urged onwards by clouds of flies and moths and more buzzing around their heads. I was careful not to bite or sting any of them, but being smacked in the faces by hundreds of bugs was enough of a distraction on its own. 

One of them, screaming like a girl, charged right past my hiding spot, blind to everything around him as he swung his arms at the insects around his head.

I let him run; his only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, there were no other big groups of people within my range, so I doubted he could get reinforcements before I was long gone.

While most of the group was occupied swatting the bugs that were swarming them, I focused my attention on the thug with the gun; he was the most dangerous, and the only one who could actually be charged with a crime. I had my fliers drop spiders onto the gun, which quickly climbed into the barrel and began to gum up the chamber with webbing. At the same time, I had a group of wasps focus on stinging the hand holding the weapon.

My plan worked: he dropped the gun, cursing and swinging his arms wildly to try to ward off the bugs. The gun hit the ground without discharging, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when I realized that the safety was still on.

Now that the group was thoroughly occupied with the bugs, I moved forward, pepper spray in hand.

Most of the thugs had fled the scene, but two were left: the one who’d had the gun, and the biggest of the gangbangers, who charged when he saw me. An ABB bandana was wrapped around the lower half of his face, keeping his nose and mouth safe, and he was evidently less bothered than his companions by insects.

I redirected my swarm from the disarmed thug to the big guy, trying to slow him down, but he was clearly past the point of caring. I backed up, but his strides were longer than mine, and soon his first punch was flying at me.

Luckily, this thug looked scarier than he actually was. Maybe if he wasn’t drunk, he might’ve posed a problem, but as it was all his swings were telegraphed enough for me to dodge them. When one of his punches did land, it was easy to shrug off the blow and keep moving. Either my costume was better at absorbing hits than I thought, or his punch was weaker than Sophia’s.

Soon enough, my opportunity came: he stumbled, and I answered with a knee to his crotch and a stream of pepper spray to his face. 

I knelt next to the thug, who was now on the ground moaning in pain, his hands cradling his family jewels. With one hand, I started digging for the zip ties in my gear compartment, while keeping the pepper spray pointed at him in case he decided to try something.

But my search was interrupted by the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of my head, and I realized with cold clarity that I hadn’t actually disabled the armed thug past disarming him.

“Move an’ I blow your brains out,” he snarled.

I wanted to hit myself. _Stupid. Careless._ A real hero wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. But as it was, I couldn’t do anything more than kneel here, not until I knew if he’d noticed the safety. At this distance, the clogged barrel wouldn’t do anything to save me; the gun would explode in his hand, and I’d be well in range of it.

“Drop the pepper spray, and stand up. _Slowly._ And don’t even think about calling more of those fucking bugs.”

I complied.

“Fucking capes, think you own the world an’ shit, can’t do jack with a gun to your head!” he laughed triumphantly. “Now put your hands on your head, get the fuck away from Zhang, and don’t try anything funny.”

I put my hands on my head, taking careful steps away from the downed thug -- Zhang -- while directing a single, tiny fly to the weapon in his hands, hopefully too small for him to notice. It crawled over the gun, zeroing in on that one critical detail...

I took a deep breath; I had only one opportunity to get this right.

I dived for the pepper spray on the ground, then spun and kicked the now-recovering Zhang in the stomach, making sure he’d stay down a little bit longer.

The gun in the nameless thug’s hand clicked uselessly, and he screamed in frustration, “What the fuck did you do?!”

“You forgot the safety,” I replied.

He glanced down at the gun, dumbstruck, and I pepper-sprayed him in the face. 

In the end, there were two thugs on the ground, one clogged gun tossed aside, and me, standing triumphant. I’d probably have to expand my close-range combat past pepper spray and dick-kicking, but if it works, it works.

After zip-tying their hands behind their backs, I realized with a start that I didn’t have any way to contact the police to come pick these guys up. I probably wouldn’t have wanted to use a personal cell phone for that, anyway, but guiltily began to consider picking up a cheap phone for when I went out as a cape. As for right now, there had to be a payphone somewhere nearby, right?

Leaving a decent collection of bugs to stand guard -- I wasn’t making the same mistake twice -- I let the rest of them disperse, hoping I could find a payphone by its shape if not by sight. 

I was two blocks away when my bugs alerted me to a commotion by the two thugs. Their friends coming back to rescue them? I hadn’t felt anyone approaching, nothing really except the wind, and focusing on my bugs’ vision just showed me a confused jumble of colors and gave me a headache. Abandoning my search for a payphone, I turned and ran back towards the street where I’d left them, but I was wholly unprepared for the sight that awaited me.

It was like a scene out of a horror movie. The two goons, both a little beaten up when I’d gone, were now bloodied beyond recognition. I was certain they were dead, because how could they still be alive with their guts decorating the ground? I felt sick. They were scum, and they definitely deserved jail, but not this.

The figure looming over the two dead thugs turned in my direction, casually flicking the blood and entrails from the head of her spear.

Her costume seemed to favor elegance over practicality. She wore a black evening gown, the fabric sweeping gracefully down to her ankle on one side while stopping at mid-thigh on the other. The gray spandex bodysuit she wore under it covered her from ankle to neck, but it was tight enough that it left nothing to the imagination. Her face was completely hidden by a white and red fox mask, artfully framed by her dark hair. Carried easily in her left hand was an ornate spear, longer than she was tall.

The ABB’s 3rd cape: Rakshasa.

I was painfully aware that all I had to defend myself was a tube of pepper spray and bugs. That had barely been enough for your average thug, but against an experienced cape on my first night out?

I was just as dead as Zhang and his friend.

Hope came from the unlikeliest of sources: an old video from PHO, Krieg vs. Rakshasa, that I’d stumbled across while researching the various capes of Brockton Bay. Between exchanging blows, they’d kept nearly a full conversation going. While most words were too muffled to make out, it was clear enough that they both loved the sound of their own voices.

For the sake of stalling, it was worth a shot.

“Why did you kill them?” I asked, silently directing the slow march of bugs back to me. “Their friends called you for help, didn’t they? So why did you kill them?”

Rakshasa paused for a moment, considering.

“It seems we’ve been drawn together under a case of mistaken identity,” she answered. Her tone was affable enough, but I was still on edge. Her words invited encouragement, though, so I obliged.

“What do you mean?”

“I came here expecting a trap, you see. A certain group of villains has been making themselves nuisances in our territory, and their style of combat is well-suited to an ambush. To answer your question, I wasn’t attacked on arrival, so I was certain those two were part of the trap, a distraction to lower my guard. Maybe they were Mastered, or rigged with Tinkertech, or any number of things. Better safe than sorry, so I killed them.

“And that brings me to you. A villain setting a trap wouldn’t have been concerned about the state of their bait. A new hero, then, in the wrong place at the wrong time, with a rather unfortunate choice of costume,” she concluded.

_Don’t think about the bodies. Don’t think about the bodies. You can have a breakdown when you’re home and safe._

Instead, I groaned aloud. Of all the nights to pick for my first night out, it had to be when the ABB was gearing up for a gang war! “Look, I didn’t realize my costume was getting too edgy until it was almost done, and by then it was too late to fix it,” I defended.

She laughed, then, and I was surprised to hear that it was a real one, not the mocking laughter I was so accustomed to. “I suppose today’s your lucky day, then. I ask questions before I shoot, and I don’t make a habit of killing children. Still, the ABB has a reputation to uphold, and I can’t just let you go unchallenged, not after you’ve attacked my men. I’m sure you understand.”

It was one thing to hear Rakshasa had a Mover rating, and another thing entirely to see it in action. She crossed the ten-yard gap between us before I had time to react, sweeping her spear in a downwards arc that would have cleaved me from shoulder to hip before delivering an open-palmed strike to my chest that knocked the breath out of me. My armor kept her spear from spilling my guts out, but it still hurt like hell. I stumbled backwards, but Rakshasa didn’t press her advantage, instead stopping to tilt her head curiously at the fact that I was still standing.

“I don’t suppose you’re Asian? It’s fine if you’re not East Asian; Lung isn’t picky about recruits.”

I couldn’t answer, too busy trying to regain my breath. That was her holding back? I’d given her the benefit of the doubt for a minute, but any sympathy I might’ve had was gone. Rakshasa was clearly a psychopath. I really hoped none of my ribs were broken, though if I couldn’t figure out how to get out of this situation fast, then trying to explain that to Dad might be the least of my problems.

She took a casual step towards me, and I retaliated with a swarm of bugs. Barely glancing in their direction, she lifted a gloved hand and formed one of her orbs, a black sphere swirling with inner light, maybe the size of a basketball. With a flick of her wrist, it detonated, frying most of the bugs instantly and leaving an impression of a miniature sun burning my eyes.

“Mm, maybe Lung should be picky, though. Is that really all you can do? Impress me, little fly,” she purred.

I bombarded her with a constant stream of bug clouds, which she blasted out of the air with lazy efficiency. I didn’t like depleting the bug population like this, but I needed to keep her busy while I set my trap. The plan was working, at least: Rakshasa seemed happy to play with me, calling out comments that trod the line between encouragement and mockery. It was a little more pleasant than some of the needling I’d get at school, but not by much.

“Vary your directions -- perhaps two at once, if you can manage that? Do you have fine control? No? Some powers just don’t quite make the cut.”

She wanted fine control? I’d show her fine control.

As this exchange was going on, I had snuck a handful of spiders to her ankles, commanding them to spin their silk around her legs as quickly as possible. At the same time, I prepared a tiny strike force of high-impact bugs for when it was time to make my move.

If there was anything Rakshasa and I had in common, it was one particular vanity: our hair. As I put my plan into action, I resolved to fix that flaw in my own costume, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

Bees, wasps, and hornets all stung the exposed flesh at the back of her neck.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected. 

If she was a combat precog like some of PHO insisted, she might’ve harnessed her Mover rating to dodge the bugs, somehow -- and then gotten tripped up in the web around her feet. I hadn’t used a particularly nasty combination of bugs. It would hurt, yes, but I’d held back everything lethal. I figured maybe the shock would stun her for a second, and I could take the opportunity to run. Either she let me go, content after roughing me up a bit and seeing what I could do, or she followed. Same conclusion, then: feet meet web, face meets ground.

What I did not expect was for her to scream, and then fall to the ground convulsing, grasping at her throat.

My heart sank at the one possibility I had ignored.

_Rakshasa was allergic to bees._

I debated leaving her. She was a murderer dozens of times over, and could very well have killed me even while ‘going easy’ on me. She’d helped to ruin Brockton Bay with her very presence, and the city would be better off without her.

I thought of Zhang and his friend, whose name I never learned, dead in the street. Their friends had called Rakshasa for help, and she’d killed them both over some stupid imagined gang fight.

I took a step away, and then stopped, watching as the villain convulsed on the ground.

_No. You’re better than that._

She’d made the choice to let me live when she could’ve left me a smear on the ground. The least I could do was repay the courtesy.

I pulled an epipen out from the compartment at the back of my costume, but then I froze with indecision once again.

Could it be an act? Was Rakshasa conscious? If she was, would she even let me approach? Or was she too far gone to care? I directed a few bugs to the epipen, but I already knew there was no way I could use them to inject her. They didn’t have the strength to hold the pen straight and push it into her thigh, even if the epipen could make it through the fabric of her costume. Even worse, she might be allergic to some other bug, too, and them touching her would only make it worse.

No, it would have to be me.

But before I could take a single step forward, I heard the roar of a motorcycle, and the street was flooded with light. 

The hero pulled to a stop, all but throwing her helmet off and running over once she caught sight of Rakshasa on the ground. “What--”

“Bees -- didn’t know she was allergic -- thought she’d attack if I tried to approach,” the words spilled out of me as I pushed the epipen into Incarnate’s hands.

“Stay right here,” she ordered, taking the injector from me and quickly kneeling at Rakshasa’s side.

In one smooth motion she removed the cap and plunged the epipen into the villain’s thigh, while at the same time she began to speak rapidly into her earpiece: “Console, I’ve got a severely-injured Rakshasa just north of Plymouth and Howard, anaphylactic shock, gonna need an ambulance ASAP and maybe Panacea, too. Two deceased John Does with her. Armsmaster, no eyes on Lee but R and the Third are here with me, watch your Six if you engage--”

Help was on the way. I felt myself relax, just a little. Looking for a distraction from everything awful that had happened tonight, I focused on the Brockton Bay hero, instead.

Compared to some of the Protectorate’s capes, Incarnate was a relative newcomer, with fewer than two years on the force. While Triumph was technically her junior, he’d graduated from the Wards to the Protectorate. Incarnate’s first appearance as an adult hero had been a bit of an anomaly, but she’d quickly settled in to become a main figure in Brockton Bay. PHO loved her as much for her looks as for her power, but something about her had always rubbed me the wrong way.

Maybe it was the hair -- Incarnate’s firetruck red was a far cry from Emma’s natural ginger, but there was still an unwelcome resemblance. Her figure was definitely a part of it. She wore a tight black bodysuit, strategically unzipped from the neck downwards to expose as much cleavage as possible, and it was only marginally improved by the open white and red trenchcoat she draped over it. The whole thing screamed “sex appeal,” and it was no surprise that her biggest fans on PHO were teenage boys.

The ambulance arrived, and I shifted uneasily as the paramedics loaded Rakshasa onto a stretcher. Both they and Incarnate had glanced at the dead gangbangers, but they’d all come to the same conclusions I did: gone. None of them seemed to pay me any mind, and Incarnate was too busy rattling off orders on proper restraints and what to do if the villain regained consciousness. I seriously considered slipping away while they were all occupied, but a sharp look from the hero as I began to inch backwards stopped that idea in its tracks.

As the ambulance drove off, I braced myself for a lecture on safety when Incarnate turned to look at me, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long. I was tired, everything hurt, and all I really wanted was to sleep.

Incarnate gave me a long, considering look. “What’s your cape name?” she asked.

I shuffled back and forth awkwardly, a little surprised by the apparent non sequitur. “I hadn’t come up with one yet. This was my first night out.” 

That seemed to catch her off guard a little, but she recovered quickly. “Swarm, then, for now?” 

That was one of the names I’d rejected as a little too villainous, but if Incarnate suggested it then it couldn’t have been too bad. I nodded my acceptance.

The hero took a deep breath, shifting into a fighting stance as I began to register how horribly I had misjudged this situation. I couldn’t run with my injuries, and I couldn’t fight against a pyrokinetic and hero. I was well and truly screwed.

Then Incarnate spoke, her voice cold as ice. “Swarm, you’re under arrest for two counts of murder, potentially a third. Your cooperation so far has earned you a measure of leniency; will you surrender peacefully?”


	3. Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Undersiders make a friend.

“Armsmaster’s fighting Lung,” Tattletale reported, binoculars to her face to watch the action. The Undersiders had parked themselves atop a roof a safe distance away, trying to decide on their next move.

“Guess we’re done here, then,” Regent replied. “Lee’s gone, Rakshasa and Lung are busy. Time to go home?”

“Not until we know if Lung’s going on a rampage,” Grue interjected. “If he decides to destroy half the Docks, I’d rather not be at the hideout.”

Meanwhile, down below, Armsmaster ducked under a stream of fire and stuck Lung with the tip of his halberd. The Brute fell over in an instant, apparently unconscious.

It was strangely anticlimactic.

“Lung’s down,” Tattletale relayed to the group. Armsmaster spoke a few words into his helmet, calling for reinforcements, while securing the downed Lung with ropes that appeared from seemingly-nowhere.

“As I said, we’re done,” Regent quipped.

With nothing else keeping them from going home, the Undersiders mounted up on the dogs, and away they went.

But as they leaped across the rooftops back towards the base, a shape down below caught Lisa’s eye.

“Wait,” she said. “Stop.”

With a whistle, Bitch called the dogs to a halt. “What?”

Tattletale shimmied down from the back of the dog, approaching the unconscious man in the alley.

He couldn’t have been much older than them, maybe twenty-two at most. 

He was laying face-up on the ground, unconscious, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants with his chest bare. It was hard to tell without more light, but he might have been Hispanic. His chest and arms were littered with scars -- _some recent, others older, two distinct sets of trauma, incurred over a long period of time_ \-- while in the center of his chest was a tattoo, the same omega that she’d seen on the non-human members of Faultline’s Crew. 

His most striking feature, the one that had first drawn her eye, was his left arm. It was much bulkier than his right, and on closer inspection seemed to be encased in some sort of rock. His fingers were sharpened to claws, and the dangerous ridges and uneven planes across the rest of it made her restrain the urge to touch the rock. She had better ways of investigating it, anyway. 

_Material completely composes arm; no flesh underneath. Crystalline molecular structure, harder than diamond. Nigh-invulnerable to cutting, heat, electricity, compression..._

He was definitely a cape. No, more than a cape: a Case 53.

No memories. No attachments. No family, no past. Nothing that Coil could exploit to gain his loyalty.

This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“Why’d we stop for a passed-out druggie?” Grue asked, joining Tattletale on the ground.

“He’s not just a druggie, though -- see that tattoo? The omega? He’s a monster cape.”

Her teammate peered down at the man. “Doesn’t look too monstrous to me.”

“No, look at his arm,” Regent interjected. “Looks like it’s made out of rock or something. I can’t affect it at all.”

“Are you gonna stare at him all night, or are we gonna go home?” Bitch stood impatiently by the dogs, not bothering to join them.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Tattletale turned to Grue. “Help me load him onto the dogs?”

That was not the right thing to say. “No way. We’re not gonna bring some unknown monster cape back to the base.”

Tattletale scrambled for a good explanation without defaulting to ‘he’s interesting and I wanna figure him out’. “Monster capes always draw attention, right? So when he’s up and about he’ll probably start causing trouble with the ABB, and then the Protectorate will try to scoop him up. The last thing we want is the PRT swarming around this close to the base. We can take him in for the night, and if he doesn’t want to join the team we can dump him somewhere that won’t cause us trouble.”

“And how do you know he’s not going to wake up and attack us while we’re bringing him home?”

A quick dip into her power gave the answer to that question. “He’s drugged up to his ears, there’s no way he’s waking up within the next few hours.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem of a _potentially-hostile cape_ in the middle of our hideout.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him. No hostile capes wandering around the base alone, alright?

Brian considered it for a moment, then finally relented. “Fine, but you’re paying to replace anything he breaks.”

Lisa nodded her agreement, then together they hoisted the Case 53 onto the back of Brutus. Rachel didn’t seem too pleased with their new addition, but she didn’t kick up a fuss about it, either.

Back at the hideout, it once again took their combined efforts to relocate the man to the couch, and from there the Undersiders dispersed into their various rooms while Lisa took watch in the living room. A beanbag chair was no bed, but she figured it’d give her enough of a good night’s sleep while keeping her close at hand if anything happened tonight.

Once again dressed in civilian clothes, Brian paused in the living room, glancing between the monster cape and the door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lisa called. “You can go home.”

“But what if he--”

“He’s completely out,” she reassured him. “And if he’s not, I’ll be here the whole time to see it.”

Brian nodded, but hesitated one last time at the door. 

“If he does start going crazy… well, the TV is replaceable,” he said, and she couldn’t help but smile at his unspoken affection. What a mother hen.

~

Lisa slept on a chair in the living room, more to honor her agreement with Brian than out of any fear that the man on the couch would wake up in the middle of the night.

By morning, the Case 53 was still out, and she took advantage of the morning quiet to take another look at him.

In the dark of the alleyway she’d missed the shock of white in the middle of his dark hair, but now it was incredibly eye-catching. Some capes had minor appearance changes that came with their powers -- Canary was the first example that came to mind -- but she wasn’t sure how to reconcile that with his apparent status as a Case 53. He didn’t have any major deformities. Sure, the arm would make it hard for him to keep a civilian identity, assuming it was stuck like that, but that was nothing compared to Newter or Gregor the Snail.

Now, it would be another thing entirely if his whole body was made out of the same rock as his arm. In the light, the stone looked like some sort of volcanic rock, basalt or obsidian, threaded through with veins of molten orange that seemed to radiate heat. It bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Behemoth.

But disregarding his irregular features, and underneath the scars, he was surprisingly handsome. He had the look of a guy who worked out regularly, and while she wasn't actually interested in much more than looking, there was nothing wrong with appreciating some good eye candy from time to time.

Lisa caught herself there. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ogled a cute guy without her power feeding her ‘helpful’ information like whether he picked his nose or the weird things he’d done in bed with his last girlfriend. This man was a blank slate, and as much as Lisa enjoyed unraveling secrets, it was almost refreshing how little was there.

Refreshing, but also concerning. He might be her best shot for an ally against Coil, but she couldn’t predict him.

That was a mystery for another time, though. He’d started stirring, shifting around a little in his sleep, and a stray movement of his armored claws dug a set of large gouges in the carpet.

Keeping one eye on the Case 53, Lisa dug out her cell phone and hit a number on speed dial. “Hey, Brian? Yeah, it looks like he’ll be waking up soon. If you could be here, that’d be great.”

Brian arrived within 15 minutes, just as her power told her that the drugs were more or less flushed out of their guest’s system. After passing around this warning, the whole group gathered in the living room to wait for him. Lisa was closest to the couch, looking reasonably unthreatening, as the one who would provide the inevitable reassurances to his confusion. 

Brian and Rachel were positioned farther back, to keep from crowding him, but close enough that they could back her up easily if he was hostile.

Alec had perched himself on the kitchen counter with a bag of chips, out of the immediate line of fire but with an easy line of sight to disrupt his movements. How much Alec could really help, she didn’t know, considering he couldn’t affect the Behemoth arm, but tripping worked well enough.

The Case 53 woke up slowly, sitting up and stretching, before realizing his surroundings were unfamiliar. He jumped to his feet, and Lisa was there to greet him.

“Hey,” she said gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you. I’m Lisa, those are Brian, Rachel, and Alec.” She motioned to each one as she recited their names. “We found you on the street last night, and brought you here. Do you remember anything?”

His eyes were an unnervingly-bright shade of amber that couldn’t have been natural. When she tried to read his expression, she found that her own eyes were inevitably drawn to his. He took a long look around the room, and Lisa immediately turned on her power to gauge his mood.

_Is uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings. Registers only Brian and Rachel as potential threats. Is reassured by lack of weapons. Thinks he can fight his way out easily if needed. Thinks you’re normal teenagers -- has not considered powers. Will not hurt you unless attacked first._

After a moment, he replied, “Nothing.” She didn’t need her power to read the tension in his shoulders and voice. “You said you found me on the street?”

“Yeah, not far from here. It looked like someone drugged you and dumped you.”

He sat back down, digesting the information.

_Is inclined to believe you. Needs more information to be certain. Does not trust your motives in bringing him here._

“Where’s here, exactly?” he asked.

“Brockton Bay.”

His brow furrowed.

“Brockton Bay, New Hampshire? United States of America? Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, Antarctica?” There was no spark of recognition on his face. “None of those ring a bell, then. How about this?”

She pulled up a map of the world on her phone, holding it up to show him. The Case 53 made a motion to grab it with his left arm, and Lisa withdrew it quickly. “Nope. No claws on breakable technology. People hands only.” 

He stared down at his left arm, as though he was seeing it for the first time, but took the phone gingerly with his right hand, instead.

_Recognizes nothing. Does not want pity. Does not want to talk. Needs time to organize thoughts, gather information. Does not know name. Does not know location. Does not remember past. Does not know how to deal with this._

Okay. Not good. The last thing she wanted was a breakdown in her living room. 

The idea came to her suddenly, and she took the phone back from him, creating a fresh tab in the web browser and pulling up the keyboard.

“This is Google,” she explained. “You type in any questions you have, and it’ll bring up answers.” 

A way to give him a bit more control in this situation by allowing him to get information without going through one of them.

With the phone resting on the coffee table, the Case 53 slowly typed out one letter at a time with his good hand, hunting and pecking for keys like an old man. His confusion at the whole thing would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad.

Alec evidently agreed. Abandoning his perch on the kitchen counter, he flopped down on the couch next to the monster cape, snatching the phone away. “That’s honestly painful to watch. Just tell me what you wanna know and I’ll look stuff up for you. We’re gonna need something to call you, by the way. How about Behemoth Boy?”

The joke flew right over his head, and Alec glanced at their resident amnesiac, then over to Lisa. “He doesn’t know what Behemoth is, does he?”

“Nope,” she answered cheerfully.

“That’s too much of a mouthful, anyways. I’m just gonna call you Rocky, alright?”

The newly-christened Rocky shrugged, and that was taken as acceptance enough. 

Siccing Alec on him wasn’t the approach Lisa would’ve chosen, but it seemed to be working well enough. The fact that Alec wasn’t treating him with kiddie gloves had helped to diffuse some of the tension in the room, even though he’d probably get bored of playing typewriter soon.

While the Case 53 was occupied by Alec showing him the wonders of technology, Brian grabbed Lisa’s arm and pulled her aside. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

She nodded, and followed him away from the living room. When they were out of earshot, Brian spoke. “I think we should take him to Faultline. We’re not equipped to deal with him, and frankly, I’m not sure he’s worth the effort.”

“You might be right,” Lisa admitted. “I--”

She was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Pulling it from her pocket, Lisa glanced down at the Caller ID, then made a face. “Sorry, Brian. I gotta take this.”

It was the last person she wanted to talk to.

Coil.


	4. Taylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiations with the PRT.

I came peacefully.

I wanted to run, I really did. But this was a trained, skilled Protectorate hero, and I’d only beaten Rakshasa out of dumb luck. Incarnate would have no problems catching up with me if I ran, and if I fought she’d incinerate every bug I sent at her. I had my own opinion on whether I’d actually committed a crime already, but I knew resisting arrest would only make things worse.

As for talking, I knew the face of an authority who’d already made her own conclusions. Nothing I’d say would change her mind. 

My thoughts were dark as I was cuffed and loaded into the back of a PRT van. Part of me hoped I could clear up the misunderstanding, that I’d get points for coming in without making a fuss, but the more realistic part of me knew there was no point. I’d gone through the same charade a dozen times at school. Why bother hoping for something different?

The adrenaline had worn off, fully exposing me to the pain of all the injuries I’d accumulated from my night out. An ache in my left shoulder from where Zhang had punched me, which wasn’t helped by having my arms forced behind my back, bruised ribs from Rakshasa’s spear, and my wrists were beginning to chafe from the unyielding metal of the handcuffs. Worse than all of that, though, was the exhaustion. What time was it? One A.M.? Two? And yet it felt like I hadn’t slept in days. Even if I hadn’t gotten arrested, Dad would have to be blind not to realize that something was wrong.

The van rattled to a stop, and I was not-too-gently unloaded from the truck. A quick look around the parking lot revealed that Incarnate was nowhere to be seen -- had she gone with Rakshasa? Wasn’t she supposed to read me my rights? -- before I was shoved inside the building. The hallways were empty save for the odd PRT agent, given the hour, and it was a small mercy that I wouldn’t have to be paraded in front of the gawking public. I was marched through the silent white halls, down an elevator, and into a holding cell. They took me inside, uncuffed me, and then I was alone.

A holding cell, not an interrogation room. There was a cot in one corner, a nasty-looking toilet in the other, which smelled as bad as it looked. No toilet paper, either. I wandered up and down the cell a few times, looking for anything I might have missed though there was clearly nothing interesting to be found. No windows. No lightswitch. Nothing hidden under the bed. Nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. With a sigh, I finally laid down on the cot, breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell and staring at the bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and wondered how I could possibly fall asleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, their faces flashed before me: Zhang, his nameless friend, the red-and-white fox mask of their murderer. Alive one minute and dead the next, for the high crime of getting a little too drunk at the wrong place and the wrong time. Dead because I’d wanted to get a gun and a handful of gangbangers off the street. Dead because Rakshasa wanted to be _better safe than sorry._

I dozed fitfully. The mattress was little better than the floor, and every time I managed to drift off a little bit I was awoken by nightmares of blood and foxes and guns and dead men, and somewhere in the middle of all that I realized I couldn’t even remember which of the two was Zhang. There was no clock, no other way to measure the passage of time under the unchanging fluorescent lights, but however much sleep I got, it wasn’t enough.

By the time a PRT agent came to check in on me a few hours later, I wasn’t in much of a state to verbally defend myself, but at the very least I had a plan. When the heavy door finally clanked open -- morning, probably -- I immediately stood and declared, “I’m a minor, I’m not saying anything until I have my dad and a lawyer.”

Actually giving them my dad’s number was one of the hardest things I’d done in my life, but it wasn’t like I had much choice in the matter. If I said nothing they’d unmask me, and then he’d know just the same.

Another period of dozing later and the door to my cell opened again. My dad rushed in, only to stop when he got a good look at me. I knew what he was seeing: the bug mask, my brown and black costume, my hunched, defeated posture. 

I could see him drawing conclusions in his head, and I took off my mask. “Hi, Dad,” I said weakly.

“They told me you’re a villain, Taylor,” his eyes searched my face, looking for some marker of innocence. “They said you killed two people last night.”

“What?!” I exploded. “They’re trying to pin those on me? That was Rakshasa!”

Dad blanched. “What in God’s name were you doing anywhere near her?”

This was absolutely not the way I wanted Dad to find out I had superpowers. I averted my eyes and bit my lip, trying to find the best way to explain. Instead of an elaborate tale of my heroics, what I gave was a somewhat awkward summary of my attempt at heroism and the disaster that followed. The ABB kids, how one of them got help, Rakshasa’s arrival, the case of mistaken identity, and the fight. Then of Incarnate’s appearance, and the second misunderstanding. As I spoke, I could see his building anger, as my dad became really quiet and really still, the way he does when he’s trying to hold it back until he can explode at the right people. 

“As for Rakshasa, I wasn’t trying to kill her,” I replied at last, aware of how bad that sentence sounded. “She thought I was someone else, I thought she was going to kill me, I didn’t know she was allergic to bees, and before I could get to her with the Epipen, Incarnate was there.”

I took a quick breath, and continued before my dad could get a word in. “But I’m not a villain, it was my first night out, I hadn’t even picked a name!” 

“They’re calling you Swarm,” he spoke slowly, probably still trying to process everything.

“Incarnate came up with it while she was _arresting me._ ” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. 

Dad dropped down to sit on the cot, lifting a hand to rub at a headache. “I guess it’s too much to ask for a cape to do their job right considering the state of this city.”

“I’ll say,” I muttered.

“Have they interrogated you?”

I shook my head. “No, nothing. They stuck me in here for the night, and before they could do anything this morning I told them to call you.”

He stood up again, pacing as he thought aloud. “I bet we can get Alan to take on your case. Or he could connect us to someone at his firm if this is too far out of his area. And if they want an arm and a leg for it, then an arm and a leg is what they’ll get. I swear, Taylor, I won’t let them take you.”

He pulled me into a tight hug, which I responded to just as fiercely. For the first time since Mom died, I had a real dad again. I had someone on my side.

“But after you’re out of here, we _will_ be discussing the consequences for sneaking out to fight crime.”

Well. Mostly on my side.

~

After our reunion, two stony-faced PRT agents came to bring me from my holding cell to the director’s office. The elevator stopped halfway up the building, and we were joined by Armsmaster, who kept one eye on me and one hand on his halberd. 

Finally, we reached the top floor. _Director Emily Piggot, Parahuman Response Team ENE,_ read the silver plaque on her door.

Armsmaster knocked once, then opened the door.

I could tell by the first glance that the Director would not be a pleasant woman. The room was sparse -- no photographs or personal memorabilia or even a houseplant to warm up the room. There were two wooden chairs facing her desk, which would put us lower than her when we sat. Typical power plays. 

The Director herself was an obese woman with bleached blonde hair and a hawk’s gaze, looking at us from behind steepled fingers.

Armsmaster moved to the corner of the room and the PRT agents departed as Dad and I sat down in front of her desk.

“Let me handle this, Taylor,” murmured my dad. “Just follow my lead, and don’t say anything unless one of us addresses you directly.”

I nodded. This was negotiations; hopefully, he’d be in his element here.

“Mr. Hebert, Ms. Hebert,” Director Piggot acknowledged us.

“Director,” my dad replied in kind.

“I’ll get straight to the point: I understand that you’d like to keep your daughter out of juvenile detention. A jury trial would be time-consuming and expensive, so I believe it would to both of our benefit if we could settle this matter outside of court,” she said. “The alternative is a lengthy and expensive criminal trial, where your daughter, if found guilty, would face one to three years in juvenile detention at a minimum.”

“I think we skipped a very important point,” Dad retorted. “That your hero arrested my daughter after falsely attributing the crimes of a major villain to her.” 

“It’s not my place to decide who killed those men without considering all of the necessary evidence,” Piggot replied neutrally, but in the background Armsmaster couldn’t quite conceal a wince. Dad must have seen it too, based on how the corners of his lips crept upwards.

“Setting those two aside for now--” continued the Director, and I counted that as one victory, “--her powers nearly killed Rakshasa, and would have done so if Panacea had not been at the hospital to reverse the late-stage anaphylactic shock.”

“She’s a first-time offender, it was clearly self-defense, and the woman that she _did_ harm was a major villain, never mind that Taylor was attempting to provide first aid when Incarnate arrived. I seriously doubt a jury would convict her for that.”

If it did turn into a jury trial, unmasking and all, we could probably wave goodbye to any chance of Mr. Barnes defending me in court once Emma caught wind of it. I could just imagine Emma gleefully testifying about how I was a liar and a delinquent in school, so it was no wonder I turned villain. I felt sick even thinking about it.

“Normally, a measure of forgiveness is provided for unintentional harm to others during a trigger event and shortly afterwards. Given the quality of her costume, I find it extremely unlikely that your daughter triggered within the past seven days. We’ve pinpointed two likely trigger events: 2008, and this January. When did you trigger, Ms. Hebert?” Director Piggot turned her hawklike gaze to me.

“January,” I answered quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armsmaster nod at the director.

“Then given the circumstances, this offer _is_ lenient, Mr. Hebert. Your daughter nearly killed someone last night -- if not for the intervention of Panacea, she would have succeeded. The Wards program is about teaching young parahumans to use their powers responsibly, something your daughter has proven herself unable to do on her own.”

I glared at the Director, and the silent sentinel of Armsmaster behind her, who was guilty by association. What was I supposed to do, lay down and die?

“If you did choose to sign up, the information would not be made public. As far as the media would be concerned, you are a recently-triggered parahuman who decided to join the Wards.”

But Dad wasn’t going to play ball.

“Out of the question,” he replied instantly, before I could jump up and voice my own objections about being forced to work with the cape who had me arrested for no reason.

Piggot continued, undaunted. “--Another option is the Protectorate Affiliates program, utilized by New Wave, which gives registered heroes access to Protectorate and PRT resources, including joint patrols and a direct hotline to our console, which would help to prevent any more unfortunate misunderstandings.”

Dad nodded slowly. “We’ll consider it.”


	5. Amy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panacea heals a villain and finds herself in over her head.

**April 11th, 2011**

According to PRT standard procedure, Panacea was never supposed to be left alone with a villain.

But Rakshasa was restrained, sedated, and barely conscious, so when the PRT agent on duty had asked if he could step outside for a moment to take a call, Amy hadn’t given it a second thought.

Amy spared another glance at the villain. The heavy restraints keeping her bound to the bed would be enough to hold Lung, but Rakshasa wasn’t in any state to make a breakout attempt at all. The worst of the damage had been cleared, enough to save her life: removing the swelling in her throat, clearing the fluid from her lungs, stabilizing her heart arrhythmia and her blood oxygen levels. As for everything else? She didn’t care to treat villains. 

Part of her had considered just letting Rakshasa die when they wheeled her in. She was nearly dead anyway, it wouldn’t be that hard to say they were too late, and then Brockton Bay would be down a villain. But she hadn’t, because she was Panacea -- she couldn’t make a mistake, couldn’t let someone die, not even a villain, because how long would it be before she started letting other people die too? The elderly, who’d die naturally soon enough? People with cancer, which had a nasty tendency to come back even when she cleared all the tumors and abnormal cell growth? What if she started trading their lives for others?

Amy took a deep breath, giving another look to the heavy set of restraints binding Rakshasa to the bed. Not even Lung could break out of that. Throw in all the hives, and she was definitely not going to enjoy a pleasant night.

(If she felt more than a little sadistic satisfaction at seeing one of the worst villains in the Bay restrained and covered in hives, well, that was fine, right? She was a villain, after all.)

Honestly, Amy didn’t even know why she was still here. Rakshasa was stable, they could move her to PRT custody whenever they wanted, and now that she was up she could _(should)_ heal some other patients. Because what would people say if they knew she just got here, healed a villain, and left, when there could be others in this same building dying because she wasn’t there?

A choked noise from the vicinity of the bed broke her chain of thought, and she spared another glance in that direction. Rakshasa was unmasked, not that there was much to see right now -- her face was swollen, particularly the lips, and her cheeks were redder than Santa on Christmas. Her breath was still coming out in wheezes, but she was stable, and that was what mattered. The villain’s eyes were open now -- as open as they could be, given all the swelling -- and there was a certain desperation in Rakshasa’s gaze as she met Amy’s eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” Amy muttered. “You’ll live.”

“‘Me... lia…”

Panacea ignored her.

“Marquis… said… look out for you… Sorry… didn’t…” Each word was spoken with great difficulty, through lips that didn’t particularly want to move but were being forced in order to give a message of great import. Amy’s heart pounded in her chest as the words finally registered, and her blood ran cold.

It was at that moment that the PRT agent returned.

“Sorry about that, Miss Dallon. Everything alright in here?” he asked.

“She’ll be fine,” Amy had forced out, before sprinting away to the nearest nurses’ bathroom to have herself a nice panic attack.

It was only after she’d checked that nobody else was in there and locked herself in a stall that she finally let the desperate, choked laugh escape her. Fumbling under her costume for the little pouch of provisions, Amy located her pack of smokes and a lighter. With hands far shakier than normal, she grabbed a cigarette and managed to light it. Normally she was too strict with herself to smoke inside -- _in a hospital, Amy, what’s wrong with you,_ came a voice that sounded far too much like Carol’s -- but this was a special circumstance.

Marquis. _Marquis._ One of the monsters from the Bad Old Days. People talked about him in the same breath as Allfather and the Butcher. And he wanted Rakshasa to look out for her. 

_He’s your--_

Amy cut the thought off before it could take root. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be.

Amy spent another two hours healing, doing her best not to think, before the doctors began to not-so-subtly suggest that she go home and catch some sleep. She ignored them for another hour until the suggestions turned into demands, and she finally acquiesced. They all knew that she would be back tomorrow (or was it today? Amy couldn’t even remember anymore).

The silent walk home from the hospital was always the worst part of her day. It was always wonderful when Vicky flew her, but when she was alone, with nothing but her thoughts as company? Terrible.

Amy glanced down every alley she passed, challenging every shadowy figure she saw with her gaze. She almost hoped someone would try to mug her, if only to give her an outlet for some of this frustration, but she was Panacea, healer extraordinaire, and no one was stupid enough or intoxicated enough to put a knife to her back.

Nobody was up when she made it home, not even Mark, whose depression sometimes kept him up at odd hours. It saved her from having to act like everything was fine after that bombshell. At the sight of her own bed, all the exhaustion she’d been holding back came flooding into her, and it became a trial to keep her eyes open.

Tomorrow.

She’d deal with this tomorrow.

~

The dream started with a face.

It was a man’s face, distantly familiar, a face she loved. The dream-man’s features refused to solidify, save for the long strands of hair falling across his face, in front of his warm eyes.

_There are bad people coming, Amelia. You’re going to hide in here, and be very, very quiet._

_But what about you?_

_Daddy is strong, remember? Don’t you worry about me. I’ll come get you when it’s safe._

The words weren’t really words, more like impressions and ideas, dredged from some long-forgotten corner of her mind.

The door closed, leaving her in the darkness. Behind her, the shadows seemed to leap up, reaching out with wicked claws to pull her into the abyss. Soon enough, the noises started: shattering glass, shouting, bones breaking, skin tearing.

Amy clutched the pillow tighter against her chest, flinching at every flash of light that passed through the cracks at the door. The fighting got closer, and they were hurting her Daddy, and…!

_Amelia, meet the Brockton Bay Brigade. They’re going to take care of you._

_No! I want to stay with Ara!_

Ara was nice. They had tea parties together, and she would do Amy’s hair. Whenever she stayed with Ara, Daddy always came back to get her.

_You can’t stay with Ara._

_Why not?!_

But the grown-ups had made up their mind. They took her away from her Daddy, and then the two ladies argued. Neither of them wanted her, so why would they take her away?!

And then another familiar face arrived, and Amy’s heart leapt as the newcomer joined in the argument.

_There’s paperwork somewhere. I’m supposed to take care of her. Please._

_Do you even have your own house? A high school degree? A job, outside of villainy?_

_Forget about her, and go join the Wards. It’s not too late for you to make something out of your life._

The third figure approached. She knelt down in front of her, and pulled her into a hug.

_I can’t stay with you, Amelia, but I’ll try my best to look out for you. Don’t forget me, okay?_

~

The next morning at breakfast, the news had already began to circulate the news of Rakshasa’s and Lung’s captures. By the time Amy came downstairs (having not quite managed to hide the dark circles under her eyes during her morning ablutions) Vicky was talking nonstop about the capture and what it meant for Brockton Bay, in usual Vicky fashion

“When was the last time anyone managed to Cage a gang leader, anyways? Marquis?” Vicky asked. “How long until we make a move on Kaiser’s ugly nazi butt?”

Carol sent a sharp glance in Amy’s direction, then very pointedly did not answer, putting another forkful of hash browns in her mouth.

“And it was Incarnate who did it, too! She’s, like, definitely the coolest on the Protectorate team. Armsy did great with Lung, I guess, but you know how he gets anytime anyone tries anything fun.” 

Amy felt a sudden surge of jealousy, and she couldn’t stop herself from speaking with more than a little venom. “It wasn’t Incarnate, unless she’s somehow developed bug powers in the past 24 hours.”

“Huh,” Vicky mused, doing that thing where she twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “‘Unknown takes out ABB cape’ would’ve made for a great headline. Wonder why they’re not showing anything about that? Think it was a villain who did it? Actually, you were there with Rakshasa, right? Did she say anything?”

Amy shrugged noncommittally, sinking back down into her chair at the reminder of what Rakshasa did say. After a few long moments of deliberation, she spoke. “Mom, is there any chance I could stay home today?”

“Having a late night isn’t enough of a reason to stay home from school,” Carol answered icily.

“I really am feeling awful,” Amy said, completely truthfully.

“If you’re sick, I’d better not hear you were at the hospital later,” she warned.

The thought of avoiding the hospital sent a fresh wave of guilt surging through her, more because of the relief she felt at taking a day off than anything else. But her story was set, and to go back on it now, to admit to lying, was more than she could handle right now.

As she made her way back upstairs after breakfast, she was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Vicky looking at her. “You alright?” The concern in Victoria’s voice made Amy’s heart clench.

“I’ll be fine,” Amy answered, and hoped with all her heart that it was the truth.

~

It was a dream. Just a dream, a figment of her subconscious, stirred up by what Rakshasa told her as her brain tried to construct a narrative to fit. If it was real, then why hadn’t she remembered it until now?

The door had barely shut behind Carol when Amy got out of bed and grabbed her laptop. Booting it up, Amy immediately googled “Marquis capture.” The first hits were the usual cape fandom sites, but one of them happened to have the date. August 2001, just a few months before she was adopted, and from there she was able to check the Brockton Times’ online archive for something more tangible than nerds arguing on the internet. There was just a short blurb and a picture in the newspaper’s web archives. Looked like they never got around to digitizing the whole thing, but what she saw there was more than enough.

 _August 15th, 2001_  
 **BROCKTON BAY BRIGADE CAPTURES MARQUIS!**  
After a raid on the supervillain’s headquarters, the Brockton Bay Brigade took Marquis into custody. He is currently awaiting trial, and experts believe there is a strong likelihood of a life sentence to the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center, known as the Birdcage. 

And the mugshot accompanying the blurb was so devastatingly familiar that Amy’s heart almost stopped.

She closed the laptop, falling back onto her bed and burying her face in a pillow. So, that was it, then. It was true. 

Now, only one question remained.

What was she going to do about it?


	6. Elesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incarnate receives her reward for a job well done.

Elesis Sieghart was almost feeling good about herself by the time the call came in to report to Director Piggot’s office. Three villains apprehended in one night, the ABB’s leadership behind bars, and she’d grabbed an independent villain for good measure.

The conversation did not begin anything like how Elesis was expecting it to.

“You are lucky that the PRT’s reputation is more important than yours, or I would have you on your knees apologizing to that girl and her father right now. Any goodwill they might have had towards the PRT is gone. At best, we get a noncompliant Ward, and at worst, they go public about Taylor Hebert’s unlawful arrest.”

“I had probable cause.”

Piggot raised an eyebrow, and Elesis felt like a schoolgirl being scolded by a teacher. “Probable cause to suspect a cape who was surrounded by bugs, who downed Rakshasa with _bee stings_ , had decided to butcher two men like a common thug?”

 _It was the heat of the moment!_ She wanted to scream, but that would only make things worse. Heroes were supposed to be better than that. _She_ was supposed to be better than that.

“And let’s not ignore the fact that you had no business being anywhere near the Docks in the first place, not while Armsmaster was going out with the intention of apprehending Lung. Rest assured, I have already dealt with his lapse in judgment, but you are an adult, Ms. Sieghart, and I expect you to act like one. This is the kind of behavior I would expect from Shadow Stalker, not a fully-trained Protectorate hero.”

The excuses turned to ashes in her mouth. Every clue, every little piece of reasoning -- the villain alert, the costume, the scene, Rakshasa, the blood, the scream -- wouldn’t be enough, no matter how she tried to walk Piggot through her every thought from last night. The fact remained that she had made a mistake and probably cost them a Ward, and she was going to pay for it. Elesis was clenching her fists hard enough to leave gouges in her palms, and she waited for the inevitable punishment. Wards babysitting? Console? PR events until next year? Piggot wouldn’t try to have her transferred out of the Bay, would she? She couldn’t, right? They needed the capes, didn’t they?

“You’re off the active duty roster, without pay, effective now. I’ve been turning a blind eye on your mental health evaluations, wrongly assuming that a halfway-functional cape was better than nothing, and now we’ve lost a Ward for it.”

Elesis sprang up from her chair. “You can’t take me off active duty! The Empire’s going to make a push for territory, you need every cape you’ve got out on the streets--”

“I can, and I will. Until you work out your issues, I’d rather be short a cape than rely on one with your judgment. After the press conference, you’re going home -- home, not the Rig -- and I don’t want to hear a thing about you returning until you have caught up on the past six months of evaluations and sat through the Wards courses on appropriate force and procedure when conducting citizens’ arrests. Perhaps you could try interacting with normal people, as well. Now kindly stop smoldering at me, Ms. Sieghart, and get out of my office.”

With another angry look towards Emily Piggot, Elesis put a conscious effort into snuffing the fire that had lit itself in her hair. “You know I can’t help it, Director,” Elesis snapped, before turning and walking out the door.

The press conference was just as bad as she’d expected, all false smiles and false reassurances. Armsmaster was all but preening at the attention bestowed upon him for his takedown of Lung, while Incarnate endured the camera flashes and shouted questions about a fight she never even had. 

_Stop looking so smug,_ she thought at her superior, _I know they put you on half pay for it._

But Incarnate had an impeccable public face, and so not a hint of her frustration, her disappointment, her urge to just run away from this entire thing and hit something until she didn’t feel anymore didn’t bleed through to the cameras. She answered questions from the media with all the proper poise, dodged them gracefully when she wasn’t supposed to answer, and made the perfect smiles that would be plastered all over her stupid fan pages by this evening. Just the thought of how they would be singing her praises made her ill.

Afterwards, she and Armsmaster didn’t exchange a single word. What could they say to each other? All she’d given him as help for tagging along was docked pay and a lecture from the Director. Hell, considering that Rakshasa was still alive because of her intervention with the bug girl, Incarnate’s presence was a clear net loss considering that Oni Lee, her excuse for being there in the first place, was nowhere to be seen.

Incarnate allowed them to confiscate her costume after the press conference without a word of debate, and once she was in her civvies began the unfamiliar route home.

Her apartment building lay in the area between the Boardwalk and the Docks, where things were run down but not in a complete state of disrepair. It was a coin toss whether or not the shopkeepers in the area had to pay protection money any given month, but the chance to get the odd tourist with deep pockets as a customer kept most of them from moving. That, and the fact that moving anywhere better was probably outside of their budget, and nobody wanted to be in Lung’s territory proper.

Most of Elesis’ memories of the area were bittersweet; her old home hadn’t been far from here, in the decayed suburbs just a few blocks south. She used to take her little brother shopping around here, but he’d always beg her to go to the Boardwalk instead, never mind that they couldn’t afford anything he’d want there.

Too many of the old landmarks were gone; the bookstore she loved to visit after school was now boarded up, and the convenience store where they’d grab chips and soda had been replaced with a laundromat.

At least the dojo beneath her apartment was still there.

 _Haan Martial Arts_ , read the faded sign over the door. She’d poked her head in once or twice before out of curiosity. It was run by an immigrant brother and sister duo who taught local kids karate and taekwondo, the kind of place that would only be patronized by wannabe vigilante teenagers and gave out belts based on how much they paid for lessons. 

The sister had seemed cheerful enough when she introduced herself, but there was something in the emptiness of the dojo and the emptiness in her eyes that made Elesis wonder if she was trafficked and the whole place was part of some ABB money-laundering scheme. She’d pointed the cops towards it a few months back, but considering the store was still standing she figured nothing had come of it.

Today, though, her eye was caught by the young Asian man taping a sign to the door.

 _Interact with someone normal_ , Piggot’s words came back to her, and so instead of walking past him to the stairwell, she decided to approach.

“Ara’s self-defense class is cancelled,” he said, without turning to look at her. 

“Oh, I’m not-- that is-- Did something happen?” Her cheeks flamed up as she stuttered. Why was everything so much easier when she was in costume?

He turned towards her, then. The man was somewhere in his mid-twenties, tall, attractive, with dark chin-length hair and the kind of poise you’d expect to see from a white-collar businessman downtown instead of a crappy dojo owner in the Docks. 

“She was attacked last night,” he answered solemnly. The pain in his eyes hurt to look at, but Elesis couldn’t look away. “It was the ABB. She’s in the hospital. Just… go, please.”

Elesis went.

Her apartment was dark and empty, the furniture covered with plastic sheets showing just how much she actually used it. Elesis flicked on the lights, and winced at the number of dust motes dancing through the air. The fridge, of course, was empty, and the cabinets were stocked with generic provisions like canned beans. Looks like it was gonna be take-out for dinner, then.

She flipped on the TV out of boredom, immediately switching channels to the first thing she could find (that cape soap opera that Assault loved) when the first thing to appear was a replay of her interview. 

How in the world was she supposed to live like this? Elesis Sieghart had no real hobbies, no job, no friends outside of the cape scene. Any of her old friends from Winslow, assuming they’d still talk to her after years of silence, would know her as the high achiever turned high-school dropout and nothing else.

Maybe there were a few essentials she could take care of -- restocking her fridge, getting some new civilian clothes, maybe find another bookstore and pick up a thriller or two -- but none of those compared to actually being out on the streets as a superhero and making this city better. Now, while the ABB was reeling, their two strongest capes were behind bars, Incarnate was benched for driving off a teenager with a mediocre power. 

The realization came like a punch to the face: was Elesis Sieghart even a real person?

Following almost immediately afterwards was the urge to do something, not as Incarnate the perfect heroine, but as herself. It said a lot about her priorities that that something involved going after the ABB on her own terms.

_You’re an adult, Elesis. You are not going to run off like some hyperactive teenager to play vigilante._

But still, the urge wouldn’t leave her thoughts, even throughout the afternoon and into the evening as she performed the necessary chores to get her apartment back into a liveable state. She’d joined the Protectorate not a week after she got her powers, because she knew she’d never be able to take down Lung with a group at her back. She’d never fought crime outside of the constraints of the PRT, and while she could understand that was objectively a good thing, she couldn’t smash the urge to go smash an ABB brothel for the sake of her neighbor’s sister.

There was a bag of old single-use domino masks sitting in her closet from before her costume was done. She’d tossed them in there when branding was finished, and didn’t use her apartment enough to remember to throw them out.

It was a possibility, and that was enough to get the gears in her head turning.

In general, fire wasn’t a very nice power set. Ask anyone on the street about pyrokinetics, and they’d tell you about Ash Beast, Burnscar, Lung. Glenn Chambers had talked her through a strategy to get around the association: using her power as a Shaker, not a Blaster -- cutting off escape routes with walls of fire and then punching her opponent, not lighting them on fire and laughing as they burned. The PRT gave her strict guidelines on what she was allowed to ignite, and she’d followed them to the letter. Because her Breaker power let her absorb stray flames, she’d avoided any record for collateral damage, too.

That made Incarnate predictable. More than once she’d had to eat a hit she could’ve avoided, because to shift forms would be to put her opponent at an unacceptable risk. No boiling Kaiser in that tin can of his, either, no matter how much she wanted to. For the most part, her Breaker state was for appearances only, and for dodging long ranged attacks like Purity’s blasts or Rakshasa’s orbs. 

But she knew that there was more that she could be doing with her Breaker state. Shadow Stalker took full advantage of her own Breaker state, particularly the weightless part of it. Fire didn’t have any mass either, did it? 

The possibilities were nearly endless, all she needed to do was get out in the field to test them--

 _We are not doing this,_ Elesis forced herself to think. _Not today._

_But maybe tomorrow._


End file.
